


Touch Me

by nb_richie (shipit)



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: AU, Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Canon Typical Violence, Discrimination, Dystopian society, Hydro!Stan, Implied Anxiety, Imprisonment, M/M, PTSD, Pyro!Richie, Sexual Harassment, Violence, anger issues, my children, superpower au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-02-28 08:51:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13267953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipit/pseuds/nb_richie
Summary: Fire and water do not mix, but that’s not going to stop Richie and Stan.~Updated when Chapters are Finished~





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning!!!!!! This fic has discrimination in it against a certain power type (pyrokinesis) that affects Richie's day to day life. As of chapter one, there is a slight warning for a character who threatens to sexually assault another, but it does not happen and only occurs within a couple lines of dialogue. I'll be adding warnings as the story progresses

“Get dressed Rich, we’re gonna be late!” Stan chastises from the doorway to Richie’s room. “And don’t forget your gloves- you left them on the bathroom counter last night.”

Richie nods in answer, finally dragging himself out of bed. He hates that he has to sleep in a different room from his own boyfriend, hates that he has to wear gloves so that he doesn’t hurt him. On his twenty-first birthday, when he finally developed the powers that would shape his life, he was so excited to discover that he was a pyro. All the cool action heroes and villains are pyrokinetics, after all. Stan had kissed him and congratulated him, and all of the losers spent three weeks absolutely mesmerized by the flames that Richie was just learning to control. Soon after that, everyone else got their powers- Bill and Ben are telekinetic, Bev is thermokinetic, and Eddie is electrokinetic. Those are all fairly common, it’s water and fire that are rare. Just to Richie’s luck, when Stan turned twenty-one a year later, he was hydrokinetic. Fire and water do not mix. It’s so extreme that people with the opposing gifts can’t touch skin to skin.

Stan promised that it wouldn’t tear the two of them apart, and three years later, it hasn’t yet. Still, every single day Richie has to remind himself not to kiss Stan. The one time they touched, Richie putting his hand on Stan’s bare waist without remembering his gloves, they had jerked back instantly. The sensation was something like getting an electric shock, and left its mark. A black handprint traced Stan’s hip bone for weeks like a bruise, while Richie’s palm is a permanent silver. Ever since, Stan reminds him about the government issued gloves everyday.

“Weird timing,” Richie had said when they came in the day after Stan’s birthday. “Why wouldn’t they send them right when I turned 21? I gave my mandatory report and everything.” Stan had shrugged and said that at least now they could hold hands.

“I’m serious, Richie, hurry up!”

Suddenly snapped out of his thoughts, Richie rushes to get dressed. Most of his wardrobe is now what Bev calls “edgy but in a good way” as part of his regulations. As it turns out, being a pyro means the government gets a lot of say in his daily life. Even though he’s perpetually too warm, Richie really isn’t allowed to have skin other than his neck and face exposed in public- something about protecting the hydros. They’re revered as the best, the smartest, the prettiest. Who needs a dumb “jock” pyro hurting them?

When Richie finally gets into the bathroom, dressed in his thick black clothing, to comb his hair and put on his gloves, Stan is leaning over the counter to apply a peachy lipgloss. An ugly feeling twists in Richie’s stomach at how Stan is allowed to be. His skin is clear and radiant, and there’s a lot of it displayed by his shorts, low rise converse, and crop top. He gets to be pretty.

Trying to reach his gloves without accidentally brushing his knuckles against Stan’s bare stomach is kind of like playing Jenga, but Richie manages it somehow. The fabric is familiar to him. Smooth and cool on the outside, burnt and dusty on the inside. His gloves aren’t half bad, when he considers how often they’ve kept him from doing damage when he gets too emotional.

“Remind me where we’re meeting everyone?” Richie says, shoving his hands into his gloves so that he can finally smooth through Stan’s unruly curls, not yet clipped back.

The touch makes Stan wrinkle his nose. He hands Richie a bobby pin with the unspoken command to be useful if he’s going to touch Stan’s hair. “That new pancake place by Ben’s firm. He’s treating us all to breakfast as a thank you for helping with his latest project.”

“Right.”

Richie carefully pins Stan’s corkscrew curls out of his face and grabs the weird hairspray that Stan loves, giving a good couple spritzes over Stan’s hair to keep it in place. He then goes back to his own appearance while Stan finishes his makeup. Richie’s face is so much paler than Stan’s, and his cheeks and nose are speckled with dark freckles. Before they grew up, Stan used to like to trace them with his fingertips and count them out. The memory is painful, now. Richie grabs a brush and a hair tie to scrape his far more unruly curly hair into a messy bun. Once upon a time, Stan complained about it, but now he accepts that it’s just as much a part of Richie as everything else.

After Stan finishes his blush and mascara, the two of them link hands and walk out of the apartment. From behind parted curtains, neighbors stare. It’s no secret that Richie is a pyro, based on the way he dresses and carries himself. To see him being so casually affectionate with someone who could only be a hydro is a sensational sight to most. Stan rarely notices, but Richie is always hyperaware. He tightens his hold on Stan for the duration of the walk to their car every single time.

 

Everyone is already at breakfast when Stan and Richie get there. Ben has an arm around Bev’s shoulders, casually playing with her bright hair. He says something funny, and she laughs, leans into him, and presses a lipstick kiss to his cheek. Bill’s hand is holding Eddie’s under the table. They get the privilege of affection, and they’re taking it for granted.

“Calm down, Rich,” Stan whispers.

In addition to the stigma that already surrounds being a pyro, they typically have explosive tempers. Hydros on the other hand, are known for being soothing. It feels cliche, but that’s simply the way things are. Richie remembers laughing when he found out that Stan was a hydro, before the reality sunk in, because Stan is the most high-strung person he’s ever met. The perfectly neat bathroom counters, organized shoe rack, and hospital-crisp corners on his bed sheets attest to that.

“Hey guys,” Richie says cheerfully as he slides into the booth beside Eddie. Stan sits across from him, picking up a menu almost immediately. “Sorry we’re running late, Princess over here was doing his makeup.”

With an eye roll, Stan flicks a straw wrapper at Richie. “You’re the one who didn’t get up until five minutes before we left.”

He sticks his tongue out at Stan in response and leans over Eddie’s shoulder to read about all the different kinds of pancakes. He didn’t even know that cinnamon roll pancakes were a thing, but now he’s extremely intrigued. Pancakes? With frosting? How could he not? When the waiter comes around, she takes everyone else’s order. Ben and Bev both get chocolate chip, Bill gets plain, Eddie gets blueberry, and Stan gets strawberry. She starts to leave before Ben calls her back, saying that she missed Richie.

“Sorry, I just assumed he’d be eating souls or something,” she says snarkily, but still pulls out her notepad. “What can I get for you?”

Part of Richie wants to flip her off and leave, but he decides better of it. They’re all here to celebrate, and he won’t ruin this for his friends. “I’ll take a stack of cinnamon roll pancakes, please, ma’am. And a coffee if it’s not too much trouble.”

She makes a face at his clearly false demeanor before she leaves.

Beneath the table, Richie’s hands get warmer and warmer inside his gloves. If he isn’t careful, they’ll burst into flames. No one will know except for him- and Stan, who’s gotten incredibly adept at reading Richie’s body language over the years- but it’ll still be humiliating to have so little control over his powers and emotions. In an effort to stay calm, Richie bites down on his bottom lip, hard, and clenches his hands. Bev and Stan are both looking at him, but the other four have resumed their conversations. Silently, Bev nods toward the front of the restaurant, asking Richie if he wants to leave. At the same time, Stan reaches under the table and closes his hand around Richie’s gloved fist. He retracts quickly, feeling the heat even through the fabric. It almost doesn’t hurt Richie to know that his own boyfriend can’t comfort him without pain.

“I need to use the bathroom,” Richie mutters, and stumbles out of the booth, through the maze of tables, and outside the building to take deep breaths of fresh air.

His chest hurts with the force of containing the fire.

Beverly comes out a few moments later, her eyebrows knitted together in concern. She has a glass of cold water in her hand. Richie almost gets angrier, because he knows that she would never cool him down like that. The only reason she brought it was so that if Richie loses control, and anyone’s watching, she can concoct an excuse about having a job in preparing him to enter the real world. Like he’s less human. Like he’s an animal.

“She’s just a bitch, Richie, and you know it. Not everyone thinks that way.”

He clenches his fists inside his gloves. “But most people do. And why shouldn’t they? I can’t even touch my own boyfriend, Bev.”

Before he even realizes what he’s doing, Bev grabs Richie’s wrists to stop him. “Do not take off those gloves Richie. You know what’ll happen.”

“Do I care?”

“You should.”

If she wasn’t a thermo, her hands would be starting to burn right now. Luckily, she can leech the heat out and dispel it around them equally in a safe way. There’s a reason why most of the pyros that make it into relationships pair with a thermo. It’s like the two were made to coexist. Richie takes a slow deep breath, but it barely helps. He wants to calm down on his own, and Bev wants that too, but she can just steal his heat and extinguish him almost painlessly. The cool down will be jarring, but at the very least, it’ll be better than ice water trickling down his spine.

Fire begins to lick at the inside of his gloves. He feels its familiar warm tickle. Bev does too, and almost jerks her hands away. “Breathe, Richie. You can control it.”

“Please make it stop.”

Beverly seems like she wants to protest. She looks down and slowly takes all the heat out of Richie’s hands. The cold creeps up to his elbows, hurting his usually boiling hot skin. He hisses, but doesn’t pull away until she does. His heart feels empty, like it always does after a forceful cooldown. Bev mercifully restores a small amount of heat, but not nearly the temperature he usually crackles with. She gives him a look that asks if he’s ready to go back inside. Richie nods and follows her back into the restaurant.

Their table is quiet and tense. Stan plays with his water, making it bubble and swirl around and even going so far as to twist it up in a spiral above his glass. It sloshes back down when he sees Richie and Bev. They both sit down in the silence.

“So, I was on site the other day when my coworker, Hockstetter…” Richie’s mind goes on autopilot as he tells his story to lighten the mood. It stays that way for the rest of the meal, even when he tastes the cinnamon roll pancakes that had had him so excited not even ten minutes ago.

 

Breakfast goes somewhat smoothly, but the waitress and Richie won’t look at each other, and there’s an unspoken tension between Richie and Stan. Everyone can sense it, but no one dares comment on it. Their ride home is silent, but Stan has the decency to tell Richie that he isn’t mad at him, in order to ease his anxiety. It kind of works. The tension is enough to start to make Richie heat up again, but he can keep himself fairly cool this time, except for the angry blush high on his cheekbones.

Stan leads him inside when they get home with a hand on the small of his back. It’s reassuring, but not enough. “I’m sorry,” Richie says once the door locks behind them.

“What? Why?”

“I ruined breakfast.”

Instead of reassuring Richie with words, which Stan knows doesn’t work, he wraps his arms around Richie in a tight hug. He’s short enough that his hair rests a couple inches below Richie’s chin, and his cheek presses against Richie’s black tee shirt. Richie wants to touch Stan like a _normal person_ , wants to kiss him like a _normal person_ , wants to be able to sleep in the same bed like a _normal person._ This shouldn’t be such a big deal. Consequences be damned, Richie wants to touch Stan. He has to. He can’t do it anymore. With the way the rest of the world looks at him, and the way they treat him, they don’t get to take Stan away from him too.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Stan says quietly. “I can practically hear it.”

Somehow that makes Richie feel even worse, but he pretends otherwise. “What am I thinking then?”

“You’re thinking it’s not worth it. That we should just kiss.”

The fact that his only response is to swallow and tighten his hold almost imperceptibly is telling enough to Stan. He pulls back, away from Richie, and reaches up to him. His thin fingers, whose touch Richie had missed more than he cares to admit, curl around his neck and play with the baby hairs there. It stings, but the tiny touch is nowhere near as awful as the one they had shared all that time ago.

“Stan, are you sure about this?”

Stan smiles and licks his lips that are slightly chapped from the dried remnants of the lipgloss he had applied before breakfast. He pulls Richie down and kisses him.

After all these years, the kiss is even better than Richie remembers. It burns and aches in his chest but he never wants it to stop. Next thing he knows, his gloves are on the floor and he’s clinging to Stan. That contact hurts a little too, but he really doesn’t mind. How can he, when he gets to touch his boyfriend for the first time in years?

They have to pull apart eventually to breathe. Stan’s lips are red and kiss-swollen, but unscarred. His back, however, has the inky trace of Richie’s hands. Both of them are now covered in the thick silver. “We’re okay,” Richie says incredulously.

“We’re okay. Kiss me again.”

It’s too easy to. Richie can’t stop himself from touching more and more of Stan. Up his back, on his hips, in the back pockets of his shorts, eventually on his thighs, holding him up off the ground because they can’t get enough of each other now that they’re touching after all these years. Fire burns from Richie’s hands, but Stan doesn’t seem to feel it. Water pours out of Stan’s own fingertips, drenching Richie’s hair and skin. It doesn’t hurt. The initial spark and pain have faded, leaving Richie feeling incredibly energized and powerful. He could, in this moment, do anything.

He sets Stan back down and breaks the kiss, shifting his hands back up to Stan’s hips. Everywhere his hands have been is stained black. Did you feel that?” He asks quietly. “The- the-”

“The power,” Richie finishes, searching Stan’s wide eyes. “Yeah, yeah I felt it too. Is it dangerous?”

Stan presses his lips into a fine line. “It definitely doesn’t make sense. Shouldn’t water extinguish fire? Isn’t that what we’ve always been taught?”

“Maybe when- I think it’s the fact that we’re human. That’s why there’re so many rules about us touching, right?”

“I don’t know. But we can’t tell anyone. And you still can’t put your hands on me, because it does _this_. If anyone sees, they’ll know.”

In Richie’s mind, maybe it would have been better to not know he could touch Stan, because now that he’s not certain it’ll kill him, he craves the contact that much more. And he still can’t technically touch his boyfriend because of the marks it’ll leave. This hurts. But at least it’s only Richie’s hands that burn. Their lips are fine, their faces fine. Thank god Richie had only touched him where clothes can cover, or this would be so much worse.

Stan picks up Richie’s gloves from the floor and carefully hands them over. “You should, um, you should put these back on.”

With a deep breath, he takes them and slides them over his hands for the second time today. They’re even more annoying now. In contrast with Stan’s smooth skin, the inside is gritty. It seems to scratch at his hands in the worst way, like sandpaper. In just an hour or two, he’ll have to go to work and destroy things. There’s a certain satisfaction to it, but at the end of the day, Richie hates that all the government thinks he’s good for is burning old buildings to the ground.

 

He kisses Stan goodbye, wishing it could be more, but recognizing the consequences and the fact that Stan is distracted by his work- online accounting.

 

“Hey Bucky Beaver,” Hockstetter says when Richie walks on site that afternoon, licking his lips. “Lookin’ distracted. Fantasizing about me?”

“You wish.”

Most of the Richie’s coworkers are already at work. The pyros have taken off their gloves and are burning the piles of garbage. A few thermos stand by to extinguish unruly flames and keep everyone under control. From the watchtower, a single hydro waits, prepared to extinguish anyone who dares try and run. No one does anymore.

He walks to the pile everyone is standing at and picks up the first object his hands touch, an empty cigarette lighter. Richie almost laughs. Off come the gloves to be tucked away in his waistband for later. His eyes flutter shut for just a moment before they snap back open to stare at the controlled, white hot flame in his hands melting the plastic. It curls, shrivels, turns to ashes. The dust coats his hands. Brushing it off is futile when it’ll pile back up. Next is a dirty, shredded, stained pair of jeans, something Stan would wear. Richie icinerates that as well. Falling into a rhythm is too easy. Grab and burn, over and over again while his mind drifts away aimlessly.

It comes to a screeching halt when a hand closes around his wrist. “Is this what I think it is?” Hockstetter asks, gesturing at the silver scarring on his hand, partially hidden in ash. “I thought the hydro scar was only on your left, Tozier. What’ve you been up to?”

“Nothing. It was my right,” Richie replies, trying to pull away from his burning hot grip.

His escape attempt is unsuccessful, ending with Hockstetter seizing his other hand and studying the metallic stains. “I tell you what. I keep the fact that you touched a hydro again just between the two of us if you do me a favor.”

If he tells any of the thermos or the hydro supervising everyone, it means trouble for Richie and Stan of an unimaginable kind. At the same time, Hockstetter gives Richie the creeps and he’s pretty sure that given the chance, he would rip him limb from limb and eat his body. The mere idea of owing him a favor sends shivers down his spine. But what other choice does he really have?

“What’s the favor?”

At first, Hockstetter seems taken aback that Richie would even ask that question. Then his face settles into an arched eyebrow and a smug grin with a tongue tracing his lower lip. “I think I’d put you right where you belong. On the floor, face down, ass up, getting fucked by-”

“Get the fuck away from me,” Richie hisses without thinking, once again trying and failing to get away.

Their lack of work and the building confrontation draws the focus of one of the thermos, who comes over with his hands out defensively. He barks out a question of what’s going on. Hockstetter grins wolfishly and holds out Richie’s hands. The thermo’s eyes widen comically and he lifts his walkie-talkie to his lips immediately to get ahold of the hydro in the tower. No amount of pulling and burning will get him away from this. Hockstetter is stronger, and the fire doesn’t hurt him because he’s a pyro too. Everyone has stopped working to stare. When something breaks the tedium of a workday, it’s impossible and stupid to focus on anything else.

The thermo puts a hand on Richie’s shoulder and starts draining the heat out of his body. Bev does it gently, like she’s easing it away. Right now, it’s like having something physically ripped out of his body. Richie screams in pain and tries to jerk away, but the combination of Hockstetter’s hold and being physically drained make it impossible. By the time the hydro gets to them, Richie has been firmly extinguished. His teeth chatter. His whole body shakes. He’s so, so cold.

“Hold out your hands,” The hydro hisses, her whole face a blank, practiced mask betrayed by her angry tone. Richie doesn’t want to, but Hockstetter makes him. Everyone stares at the scars on his hands. They seem to be a thick layer on top of his skin, still shiny and irritated and fresh. How Hockstetter knew they were hydro scars, there’s no way to know, but it figures that people trained to monitor pyros would recognize it. “What’d you do?” she asks

“N-nothing, ma’am,” Richie lies. “I’ve had these for a long time, when I accidentally brushed up against a hydro. I paid the fee, I served the time.”

Hockstetter shakes his head and laughs. “Don’t try and weasel out of this, Tozier. He had one on his left when he started working here. Showed up today with both.”

“Tell me what you did, before things get worse.”

If he tells, there’ll be consequences for Stan too. If he rats out on the love of his life, he knows he won’t be able to live with himself.

“I didn’t do anything.”

The hydro’s lips curl back mockingly and she raises her hands. Cold water hits Richie directly in the face and he makes an inhuman noise. The water Stan had accidentally drizzled him with earlier felt electric in the best kind of way. This just hurts. When the torrent stops, he can barely breathe.

“I. Didn’t. Do. Anything.”

For a moment, Richie thinks he might get to walk away from this, but then the hydro smiles a sickening grin. She pulls out her phone and dials three familiar numbers that make Richie shake his head and try once again to get away from Hockstetter’s hold.

“Hi, yeah, I’m a hydro at Incinerate 317 and I have an out of control pyro. Can you come pick him up for me? I think he’s dangerous.” The operator on the other end talks some. “Yes. I understand if you’re busy, but please get him before the end of the workday.” Hockstetter’s warm, sour breath blows past Richie’s ear and he squirms away. “Thank you. I’ll try and keep him subdued until then.” She hangs up and pockets her phone once again. “Hockstetter, would you mind holding onto him until the police get here?”

The grin on Hockstetter’s face makes Richie want to scream. “Not at all, ma’am.”

As the hydro returns to her tower and the thermo’s attention begins to broaden back out to the group as a whole, Richie is left held in place, freezing, and full of fear about what’s going to happen to him and Stan. The best he can hope for is that Stan will be okay.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for the entire fic: Discrimination, Canon-Typical Violence, Imprisonment, Paranoia, Flashbacks, Panic Attacks, Sexual Harassment, and one instance of Attempted Sexual Assault. Message me privately for more detail if need be. Please have a safe experience with this fic!

Every day, Richie comes home at approximately 7:23pm. He walks in the front door, kicks off his work boots, and smiles at Stan with a story about work on the tip of his tongue. Dinner is almost prepared, because Stan starts it early, and by the time Richie finishes his story, it’s set out on the table. It’s routine. At 8:09, he isn’t home yet. Stan’s texts and calls go unanswered. He’s been freaking out for like forty five minutes when it finally occurs to him to call one of his friends for help. If anyone knows what happened to Richie, it would be Beverly. They’re really close friends, close enough that Stan has had a couple of moments early in their relationship where he worried that Richie would leave him for her.

She answers the phone almost immediately. “What’s up?”

“Have you seen Richie?”

“Not since this morning, why?”

If Beverly hasn’t seen him, then where would he have gone? Sure, Richie could just be getting something to surprise Stan with, but he knows how much he worries so he would at least text. Something is wrong. Maybe he lost his temper and got arrested. Maybe someone mugged him and now he’s bleeding out in an alley. Maybe someone realized that he has new scars and oh my god that’s probably it and Stan can’t breathe because Richie is in so much trouble and he’s in so much trouble and he can’t breathe and-

“Stan? Take a deep breath and tell me what’s going on.”

He struggles to inhale. The air seems to get caught in his throat. Stan tries again a couple more times before he can gather his thoughts enough to explain to Bev that Richie isn’t home, and that he won’t answer his phone. Reluctantly, he tells her what happened, and how they had touched. His voice shakes as he describes the power that he felt, and the residual marks on his skin that now seem to be a reminder of how badly he’s messed up. He walks over to the TV as he walks and turns it on to see if Richie might be on the news. As awful as it is, he thinks he’d be happy to see Richie getting hit by a car or something if it means that he’ll be okay.

Just as he’s flipping through the channels, Beverly’s voice in his ear suddenly demands, “Turn to channel seven!”

That’s the station it’s already on when his screen lights up because it’s where he always watches the five o’clock news. A bleach-blonde reporter stands in front of a dump and Stan’s heart drops. Richie works at one. At the bottom of the screen, a bright red  _ BREAKING NEWS _ banner flashes. Behind it all are at least ten police cars and a van. Every spoken word goes in one ear and out the other. He keeps looking for Richie. When police come out of the yard, dragging a man, cuffed with his head down, the reporter bounds over to them with her questions. No comment from the police. She tries to talk to the man in custody, and he raises his head to the camera with a desperate expression. Richie.

“I didn’t do anything,” he says pleadingly, staring straight into the lens. 

Angry, the police force his head down again and shove him into the car.

“Beverly, where- why-”

More and more people are led out by police, all dressed like Richie- pyros. Every last one. Finally Stan tunes into the reporter’s words as she goes over what she calls a raid. There was a riot, or something, with the workers at the lot and now they’re all being detained at a facility specifically designed for pyros. Then she delves into theories about there being camps for pyros where they’re sent to die without trial. Richie could be going to one of those. Once again, Stan finds it hard to draw in a decent breath.

“I’ll be over in a few, okay Stan? Stay calm.”

Stay calm. Like it’s that easy? Beverly hangs up before he can respond and he’s left standing in front of his television. The reporter sends the broadcast back to the studio and Stan numbly turns the television off. All he can think about is what happens if Richie doesn’t come back? So much in the little apartment they share is his and should only be experienced with the ambient noise of Richie’s inane jokes and stupid stories. Even imagining living in their home together feels wrong, disrespectful. His brain rebels against the very idea.

He goes to Richie’s room and observes how different it is from his own. Being in here is strange and foreign, like walking into a stranger’s home. The farthest in he’s ever been is the doorway. Objects are scorched, or partially melted. Sitting on Richie’s messy, unmade covers is a small black box with a dark blue velvet exterior. Stan can’t decide whether or not he wants to know what it is. If it’s what he thinks it might be, it makes his heart ache for an entirely different reason. One foot in front of the other. He steps to the foot of the bed and picks up the box. His hands are shaking. He opens it like it’s spun from glass and might break if he grips too hard or moves too quickly. The interior is all silk, showcasing a silver ring studded with white and blue gemstones.

Stan’s breath catches in his throat.

Before he can spiral too much more, a key jingles in the lock. For a moment, he has a fleeting hope it’s Richie, somehow escaped. Then he remembers that Richie had given Beverly a key not long after they moved in together. Her voice calls his name, but his feet are rooted to the floor. She keeps repeating his name, like she would if Stan was having a melt down and Richie wasn’t around to help. Soft footsteps make their way to Richie’s room and he can feel her presence in the doorway.

“Stan, is that…?”

“Yeah.”

He plucks the ring from its case and slides it onto his left ring finger. It contrasts against his tanned skin, but in a good way. The metal is cold, smooth, and perfectly snug. Tears gather in Stan’s eyes and fight to drip down his cheeks before he hastily wipes them away and turns around.

Beverly is in pajamas, like she had been laying in bed when Stan called, her hair pushed away from her face with a thin black headband. Her normally wide eyes have narrowed considerably in an emotion that Stan can’t identify as they look around the room. Most of his attention is on the ring. He knows Richie like the back of his hand. He knows what this is. They’d never be able to get married, but the fact the proposal, the promise, would be there, makes this all feel that much more real. 

“We’re gonna follow Richie,” Bev says suddenly. “We’ll disguise ourselves as pyros and break him out. His clothes’ll be a little big on us, but we can do it.”

She goes to his closet and begins pulling things down. Jackets, pants, gloves, shirts. All of them emanate that rich, smoky smell that always clings to Richie’s skin. He grabs a black sweater and clutches it to his chest. It’s warm. Taunting. More clothes are flung out onto the floor. 

“Do you have black leggings, or something? Rich’s pants won’t fit us.” 

Stan nods and leaves to go get a couple pairs from his room. The air is less stifling in there. Even as he digs through his drawers, past his usual light colors and shorts and skirts, he can hear the sound of a heavy jacket hitting the floor. In his mind’s eye he can see the leather one that Richie wears when it rains. Sure, it’s water-stained and wearing thin on the elbows, but Richie loves that thing. When they went out to see a movie a year ago, it was pouring and Stan had had his face tilted to the sky to catch raindrops in his mouth while Richie burrowed himself deeper in his coat and squinted his eyes beneath his hat. They had exchanged “I love you”s outside the theater. When he began to shiver, Richie pulled off a glove to create a small flame Stan could warm his hands over. 

Richie’s like that, always doing things he shouldn’t because he wants to make everyone happy and comfortable. No one can ever take his place, no one could ever come close to being anything like him. Stan would give up everything just to spend the rest of his life with him. 

“Stan.”

He blinks and realizes that he’s standing in the middle of his room, elbow deep in his pants drawer. Beverly looks both annoyed and sympathetic at the same time. In her arms are bundles of clothes, which he knows are the smallest Richie owns from when he was finishing the last of his growth spurts. She nudges him aside and pulls out two pairs, adding them to her pile before dropping it onto Stan’s bed. They both get dressed quickly, neither of them worrying about the other when there are for more pressing matters. 

His outfit consists of his leggings, one of Richie’s sweaters, and a pair of black gloves that look like the government issued, but upon closer inspection are just nylon. Was Richie only pretending to be following the law? He turns to Bev, but she seems to have noticed as well and chosen not to comment on it at all. She’s wearing a black tee shirt and a dark grey jacket that hangs off her frame. They look like kids playing dress up as opposed to the dangerous pyros they have to convince everyone they are. Beverly goes so far as to produce a cigarette lighter from the pocket of the pajama pants she wore over. It’s for just in case, she explains when Stan looks at it strangely. 

Then she drags him into the bathroom and grabs Richie’s brush to tug through his hair. “Pyros don’t use clips,” she says, reaching for the hair gel Richie sometimes uses to smooth down flyaways. “Most tie their hair back. Pyros with short hair gel it.” A smooth dollop pours out into her palm and she begins massaging it through Stan’s hair. It feels stiff and sticky. In his reflection, he watches her grab the brush again and use it to guide all of his curls back and flat against his skull. She repeats it all on herself and they look at each other, then back to their reflections. Such small changes make them seem like such different people than they actually are. 

“I don’t like this, Bev,” Stan says quietly.

“Think about Richie.”

“How do we know he’s not just getting taken for processing or something?”

The look Beverly gives him says it all. He reluctantly nods and grabs her hand for comfort. Her hold is just as tight as his is. Stan wonders for the first time if maybe she’s scared too. He can’t blame her when every time he really thinks about the situation, his heart seems to speed up and then start to break all over again. While Stan looks down and walks out of the bathroom, she pulls out her phone, presumably to call Ben and say goodbye. Wherever it is they’re going, he has a feeling that it’ll be awhile before they come back home. 

At this point, giving her the privacy to make her phone call is the least he can do. Beneath the glove, he can faintly see the outline of his ring and reminds him of how badly he wants and needs Richie back. If Bev and the theories the reporter talked about are to be believed, this is something that Richie can’t come back from on his own.

He makes himself a cup of tea in hopes it’ll help him feel better. Richie calls it “leaf water” whenever Stan makes it, to which he responds that it’s better than the coffee. “Bean juice,” Richie always corrects. Earl Grey tastes more bitter than usual, even when Stan adds an extra spoonful of sugar to his mug. This might be his last cup of tea for quite a while, and he finds that maybe he’ll miss that more than he’ll miss the apartment when it’s this empty.

To think, just this morning, Richie and Stan had touched for the first time in years and had been so ecstatic at the fact that they could. They could, they did, and just thinking about it makes Stan’s whole body hum. He feels so warm, all of a sudden, like a fire that starts in his chest and spreads to his fingers and toes like a wave, and he never wants it to end. If it does, he’ll be left feeling even more cold and alone than before. 

A few minutes and about three sips of tea Stan can barely bring himself to drink later, Beverly comes out of the bathroom with eyes that are rimmed red, like she’s been crying. “Ben will come up with an excuse for us so that the others don’t find out.”

She then walks into the kitchen and into the pantry. Stan doesn’t have time to ask her what she’s looking for before she grabs a box of Richie’s cereal and reaches in, producing a sleek metal flask. The look on her face when she swallows a mouthful tells him that it’s strong. Why would Richie have that? Why wouldn’t Stan know? Why would she? Beverly holds it out to him invitingly, and he wants to take it.

So he does. 

Judging by the taste, it’s probably vodka. His small sip is just enough to give him a pleasant fuzziness at the edge of his thoughts, but any more will probably send him well on his way to inebriation. He hands it back to her. She takes another drink, then replaces it amongst the Lucky Charms that Richie insists are the best cereal to ever grace the Earth with their presence.  

“The trucks leave in an hour,” Bev says. “So we should probably get going, right?”

“Right.”

 

After a very tense car ride, Stan finds himself in the middle of a grungy lot. It’s packed with pyros, all agitated and bristling with heat and anger. The air feels so heavy around Stan that it’s hard to breathe. Bev squeezes his hand and pulls some of the heat away from him, something he’s infinitely thankful for. If he had somehow managed to come up with and execute this plan on his own, he’d lose it here without her. Steam rises off his skin inside his clothes, dampening them beyond comfort.

They begin looking around for Richie, occasionally calling his name but refusing to separate just in case. More than anything, they get nasty looks from people they jostle as they make their way through the crowd. Every step feels heavier and harder. Stan can’t help but wonder if they made a mistake, and Richie isn’t even here. Just as he’s about to tell Beverly, he spots him.

Richie.

He’s standing around, looking lost and afraid. The expression doesn’t seem to fit his face. “Richie!” Stan screams, pulling on Bev to try and help her see too. 

Richie jerks and scans the crowd, like he’s looking for the source of his name. His eyes are wide and even more afraid. Before Stan can say it again, a police officer grabs Richie by the neck in one gloved hand and drags him toward the front of the lot. Stan can feel his heartbeat in his tongue. As the officer drags him along, trucks pull up just beyond the edge of the fence, huge semis with unmarked sides. When they park, their backs open up. They’re going to be packed in there like sardines. Stan’s stomach rebels against being in such close quarters with so many people he doesn’t know in the dark. 

The officer keeps pulling Richie, outside the fence, and into the first truck in the row, shoving him in seeming to yell something that Stan can’t hear this far away. Suddenly, more and more pyros are being taken to the truck, officers grabbing one each each arm. It doesn’t occur to Stan why they don’t fight until someone grabs him and Beverly. The hand on his throat is tight, any tighter and he’ll start to suffocate. His feet barely brush the ground like a ragdoll’s because he can’t move as quickly as the officer wants him too. One glance to the officer’s other side shows Beverly struggling to breathe and her feet continuously going out from under her. Real, tangible fear fills his mouth with a coppery taste that reminds him of blood. Before he knows it, he’s being released and pushed into a truck. 

“Richie?” He says hopefully. 

Nothing.

“Wrong truck,” Beverly deadpans. “But we’ll probably wind up at the same place, so don’t panic, okay?”

It’s a little late for that sentiment, but Stan still nods and tries to keep himself from freaking out too much. As more and more people are packed in beside him, it gets harder to breathe the warm air and avoid touching anyone. Bev’s calming presence at his side is all that’s keeping him from losing it, he’s entirely sure. For the first time he realizes that she’s starting to shake. When he touches her forehead, she’s breaking out in a sweat. Keeping him cool is probably hurting and overheating her too much. He should tell her that it’s okay, but he’s afraid of what’ll happen if he gets too warm.

“Will we be okay?” he whispers.

“I hope so.”

At some point later, he falls asleep

 

What feels like an eternity later, he wakes up to the rumble of the truck’s engine suddenly cutting off with a sound not unlike the cough of an old smoker. The back of the truck opens, and people begin to spill out, stretching sore muscles and clearing their throats. Finally, finally, Stan can take a real breath again. The area they’re in reeks. It’s a sort of circular area, surrounded by high barbed wire fences and with watch towers are spaced around, with faces peering out from behind the thick glass. The central area includes piles of trash, which is what stinks in the heat of the sun beating down on Stan’s head. Other than that, there are three huge but squat rectangular buildings. Groups of men and women in dirty, ragged beige clothes come outside to watch everyone. None of them have gloves on, but some raise their burning hands in warning to the new arrivals.

Stan grabs Beverly’s arm and pulls her to him. He doesn’t belong here. Not that any of them do, but he isn't even a pyro. The moment they’re discovered, the pyros will probably kill them. Even if they fail, the government will swoop in and most certainly do it. He turns back to the entrance to the area, where the truck is. No others are here, meaning that they probably aren’t coming. That means no Richie. All of this was in vain, he and Bev are going to die in here and Richie will never get the chance to return home and live out the long life that he deserves.

“They’ll tell you what to do,” the truck driver barks, jerking his head at the people who’ve come out of the buildings, before he turns, climbs back into his truck with some difficulty, and begins to leave.

Now that he’s paying attention, he realizes how many more people are already here than were on the truck. They look skinny, underfed, and unhappy. Their hair is greasy, matted up, and messily tied out of their grimy faces. They’ve been here for a long time, perhaps too long.

A young woman with short hair and dark eyes steps forward and claps her hands together. She reminds Stan of an enthusiastic speaker at a high school. “Hey, welcome to hell. My name is Bella. In case you don’t know where the fuck you are- which I can’t imagine- we’re at a ‘correctional facility-’” -she uses air quotes around those two words- “-for Pyros who misbehave. We get up at seven each morning, have breakfast, and get to work by eight. You know how to incinerate, that’s probably what you were doing before you came. We work until eight at night, have dinner, and then we have free time until lights out at ten. From left to right, you have the bathrooms, then the barracks, then the kitchens. Don’t be a dick to people, and we won’t have a problem, yeah?” Bella nods to herself, or the crowd, Stan can’t tell. “Any questions?”

No one says anything, so she smiles and waves everyone over to the building she designated as barracks. “No work today so you can adjust and don’t riot, or something. Grab a pillow and a sheet and find an empty bed. That’s your home until you transfer or die, whatever comes first.”

From outside, the barracks don’t seem so large, but inside they house at least fifty bunk beds with narrow walking space between them. Huge skylights cast a hazy glow through the dusty space. More than anything, Stan wants to scrub it all top to bottom, but he’s being ridiculous and he knows it. People are already grabbing their bedding and claiming mattresses, so Stan hurries along to make sure that he and Bev can get ones next to each other. They’re lucky to find a pair, top and bottom, in one of the less densely populated corners. It’s shrouded in darkness, unreached by the sun through gritty glass stained more yellow than clear.

“Breathe, Stan,” Bev says gently.

He takes a breath in, lets it out. Everything around him makes him uneasy and sick and anxious and jesus fuck, he just wants to go home and fall asleep on the couch with his head in Richie’s lap, a stupid B-List movie blaring from their TV in the background. Already, Stan knows that he won’t be able to come close to a good night’s sleep in the crowded, stuffy, and soon to be overheated barracks.

Bev takes him back outside as soon as they have their stuff set down so that they can meet some of the other pyros. Those who came with them on the truck are stripping off their gloves and outer layers with relieved sighs. It must be nice to be so free out in the open when normally, they’re bundled up to contain all the power within them. Stan and Bev copy them. Most immediately let themselves burn. Now that they’re all uncontained, there’s so much emotion that it’s almost tangible. Some get quiet. Some laugh. Some yell. Some cry. All of them look so human. They pull each other into hugs. Everyone is burning. Someone grabs Bella and kisses her and she says something about how she understands. More and more of the pyros kiss and cling to each other.

“We’ll look weird,” Bev hisses, and grabs Stan to kiss him too. He’s frozen, unable to move. His entire body is screaming  _ wrong wrong wrong wrong _ . She’s too small and her lips are too thin and her hold on his neck is too tight and she just isn’t Richie. Bev pulls back just enough to whisper, “I’m sorry,” and then they’re kissing again and Stan still hasn’t moved. He wants to scream. At some point he starts crying and maybe that’s a good thing, because it’ll help them fit in even more.

He has to pull away far sooner than the pyros because he feels sick. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Beverly wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. At the very least, she looks almost as disgusted as he feels. It’s not offensive, it makes sense. Stan has more subtlety when he does it, but it’s too late. Bella catches his eye and begins to walk over. He panics and tries to think of another solution, but can’t find one. His feet betray his desire to run and stay firmly rooted to the ground.

“You’re not pyros. Either of you,” she says.

Stan opens his mouth to respond but nothing comes out.

“What’re your names?”

Thankfully, Bev interjects. “I’m Beverly, this is Stan.”

“And why’re you here?” There can’t possibly be a good explanation.  Nothing comes to mind, and Bev seems to be blanking as well. “You’re looking for someone, aren’t you? It’s written on your faces.”

“My boyfriend,” Stan blurts out. “He- he’s in trouble because we touched, and I need to bring him home.”

“You’re a hydro?”

Her eyes are wide and eyebrows raised and she reaches out to touch him. Her fingertips skim his collarbone, making him flinch from the sting, and come away like they’ve been dipped in platinum. 

“This is… interesting,” she says slowly, and turns to Bev. “You?”

“Thermo. I’m a good friend of Richie and Stan. Richie’s his boyfriend. And he isn’t here, he got sent to another camp.”

Bella nods and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She almost says more, but seems to catch herself and instead turns her attention to other pyros again. A young man with shoulder length hair grabs her and kisses her, but over her shoulder, he’s staring at Stan. It makes him uneasy, and he turns away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this is going to be interesting. Any thoughts about how prison is gonna turn out for Richie?


	3. Chapter 3

After being forced into the small truck for nearly fifteen sleepless hours, counted on Richie’s digital watch, he’s finally released. Other pyros crowd around him and shove him forward in their hurry to get outside. Inside the camp that they’re being dropped at are what must be three hundred other pyros with crew cuts, but their hands are ungloved, burning freely. Pain and anger is written on the faces of those who are already here, but the new arrivals, along with Richie, shed their gloves and coats almost immediately to burn.

He can’t remember the last time he felt so free, like he could lift up off the ground and fly away at any given moment. Fire consumes him, from head to toe, so much more of him in flames than he’s ever allowed. If this is why the government is so afraid, he understands. Right now, he feels invincible. He is invincible. He could do anything, and no one could stop him.

“Alright, enough!” A voice screams over the crowd. Richie searches for the source, finding it in a tall man with a square set to his jaw and a feral look to his eyes. “I’m Bowers, and I run this place. Keep your heads down, do your fucking jobs, and don’t piss me off. Got it? Good.”

Bowers comes straight up to Richie with a smirk, two silent goons following behind him menacingly. Richie names them Belch and Booger in his head. “That was a lot of fire,” he says slowly, putting his hand on Richie’s shoulder and squeezing with just enough pressure to make him want to pull away.

“I suppose it was.”

“Don’t do it again.”

His nails dig into Richie’s skin through his tee shirt before he lets go, storming away with his friends. Something about him feels wrong, sending shivers down his spine that make him want to crawl out of his skin. He’s almost reminded of Hockstetter, but the vibes Bowers gives off are a little less creepy and more straight-up threatening. In this camp, he is not one that Richie should dare to mess with. He makes a mental note to never piss him off. 

Now that he’s calmed down considerably, Richie gets a proper look at the camp. Piles of garbage fill most of the space, in varying degrees of destruction, rot, and ash, all stinking to high heaven. A layer of fine dirt covers every surface, even the skin of the people who were already here. As he looks around, he notices a small boy, looking terribly young- maybe fifteen or sixteen- peering at him from behind a pile of twisted plastic.

“Hey,” Richie says, stepping closer and extending his hand in greeting. “I’m Richie. You are?”

“Georgie,” the boy says. He shakes Richie’s hand with a firm grip. “Stay out of Bowers’ way or you’ll regret it. He’ll kill you, you know.”

He finds himself smiling. “I’ll keep that in mind. You look awful young.”

Georgie shrugs, offering no explanation as to why that is. With a certain air of caution about him, he makes his way out of his hideout behind all of the garbage. His eyes, wide and brown, seem to bore into Richie’s soul. He looks like a child, he almost acts like a child, while his close cropped hair makes Richie think of the military. Were all of them shaved when they arrived? There’s no other explanation for why every pyro who isn’t a new arrival has the same short hair. He doesn’t want to lose his, it’s part of himself, in a way.

“If you don’t wanna die, or something, just keep your head down and when I tell you what to do, listen.”

Taking orders from a kid would definitely be a low point in his life, but Richie doesn’t have much of a choice otherwise. Bowers looks like he’d have no problem squishing his skull beneath a boot the same way one would a spider, or a particularly troublesome bug. If he had seen Georgie, maybe the kid would have befallen the same fate. Richie feels kind of protective of him already. He’d gladly run his mouth off to Bowers if it means that nothing will happen to Georgie.

He snaps out of his thoughts to follow Georgie to the middle of three buildings, which turns out to be a room full of bunk beds. He’s led to one in the corner, with a mattress lacking a blanket and falling apart. “This is mine,” Georgie says. “You can take the one above it if you want a bed. If you try and take a better one, Bowers’ll be really mad.”

Richie looks up at the top bunk, which in his opinion, probably won’t be able to hold his weight. Still, it’ll be better than the floor, won’t it? He nods and follows Georgie back outside where the others have already begun to split off into smaller groups to talk and occasionally laugh. With just Georgie at his side, Richie feels a little ostracized, but at least he isn’t alone. Not yet. 

“We get up at seven, by the way. And don’t try and get breakfast, Bowers keeps that to himself. We work until eight at night and then we sometimes get dinner. After that, you hide until lights out at ten. Don’t get caught out around Bowers.”

“Seems like he’s got a stranglehold on this place,” Richie says, finding Bowers with his eyes. He’s smirking and saying something to a woman who looks terrified out of her mind- one of the new arrivals, if her dark clothes and long hair are anything to go by. 

Bowers slaps her across the face and Booger grabs her arms to restrain her while Belch holds up what looks like an electric razor. She keeps yelling while Bowers just stares at the Belch, who’s now giving her a buzz cut. Her red hair falls to the ground, burned at her feet by Bowers. When they let her go, finally, she touches what remains of her hair and takes a few wobbly steps back before she begins to run. Bowers snaps his fingers and points at another one of the arrivals. They’re grabbed and shaved too, like sheep being sheared, except this is far more dehumanizing. 

“You,” Bowers says, pointing at Richie. 

He stands up straight and crosses his arms. “No.”

“What did you just say to me?”

“I said no,” Richie repeats. 

Behind him, Georgie grabs his shirt. “Richie don’t.”

“Keep your fucking hands away from me.”

Bowers’ hands light up in white hot flames. His friends’ palms do the same. “You don’t get to say no to me, Trashmouth. You’re not special, you don’t get to-”

Without thinking, Richie makes fire of his own and shoves Bowers to the floor. “I. Said. No.”

The look on his face is murderous. He calmly gets to his feet and stares for a moment before lunging, tackling Richie and holding him down. Belch giggles and begins to cut off Richie’s hair. He yells and screams and tries to throw Bowers off of him, but to no avail. He’s only released when all of his unruly black curls lay in heaps in the dirt. 

“Don’t pull that shit again if you want to live,” Bowers hisses, and stalks off to continue shaving the other pyros. 

“Are you okay?” Georgie cries, helping Richie to his feet. 

“I’m fine. I just hate that shitstain.”

“Don’t we all.” 

He goes over to the trash piles and picks up a teddy bear that’s missing an eye. While Richie watches, he burns it and dusts his hands off to get rid of the ash. Then it’s a record. Then a file folder. Georgie keeps burning, and after a while, Richie does too. 

For several mind-numbing hours, they and the other pyros all burn as much garbage from the piles as they can. The stink the camp has is mingled with burning hair and plastic. Richie stops gagging on it after an hour, and gets used to it. Georgie glances over at him every so often, as if to check that he’s still there, safe and sound. It’s a little weird to have a child looking after him, but it kind of makes sense. Richie is more naive in the ways of this camp and has far less self control when it comes to dealing with Bowers, the annoying fucker. 

 

“If you pull a stunt like that again, it’s over for you,” Georgie says over a meager dinner of watery soup and a cup of some foul tasting grey concoction. “You can’t mouth off to Bowers.”

“I can and I will. He doesn’t run this place anymore than you do.”

Georgie sighs. “It’s your funeral. He’s been bounced from camp to camp, time and time again. This is the longest he’s been anywhere, supposedly, and even then it’s just a couple years.”

Richie nods and thinks that information over. There are other places like this one, residing who knows where. He’s at least fifteen hours away from home now. He should be with Stan right now, at a dinner he hadn’t told him that he had planned. Even if the government never allowed them to marry, he was going to propose. He can picture it now, the shock and joy on Stan’s face when he gets down on one knee and shows him the ring he had custom made. The jewelers wouldn’t talk to him, so he had Bill buy it and paid him back. Sapphires and diamonds inlaid on a silver band to represent the water that makes Stan exactly who he is. He isn’t sure he’ll ever get the chance to propose, now. Not when he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get to go home. 

“Penny for your thoughts?”

He shakes his head at Georgie and downs a gulp of gray sludge that tastes the way grass smells. Once it’s down, he makes a repulsed face that earns him a giggle. The soup itself isn’t bad, just a little bland with chunks of something unidentifiable in it. Potatoes, maybe? It’s hard to tell. The plastic spoon that’s been scraped and washed even though it’s disposable brings  more and more of it to Richie’s lips. He’s hungry, after a day of work with no food and no water. 

 Before long, it’s gone, and Georgie is done too so they take their dishes to the front of the dining hall and wash/dry them for tomorrow. All the work here is done by inmates. Once a week, food is dropped in, and in the morning will come the drab uniforms for the new arrivals made of a fabric comparable to burlap. According to Georgie, all the new recruits have to burn their old clothes once they change. This whole system seems set up to make everyone as inhuman as possible. They’re like animals in a zoo, caged only with each other and things they have to destroy, and for what? For the government? For the guards leering at them from the watchtowers?

For the next two hours, there’s nothing to do. Bowers and the other two shuffle around causing trouble, while most everyone else just tries to stay out of their way. Georgie’s eyes are dragging down at the corners with exhaustion, so Richie leads him into the barracks to sleep while he watches over him. Richie’s always wanted a little brother or sister, and it looks like this is the closest he’ll ever get. As he sits on his thin mattress, he wonders about how he’ll survive here, or even if he will. It doesn’t seem like there’ll be a trial where he’ll be presumed innocent until proven guilty. Hockstetter was his judge, the hydro in charge of the yard his jury, and this camp will be his executioner.

“Hey, Trashmouth,” Bowers drawls, walking through the rows of bunks with his Belch and Booger behind him. Richie carefully lowers himself to the ground, standing between the three of them and Georgie’s sleeping body. “Relax, I’m not here to hurt him. Don’t think I won’t, though.” Belch snickers and elbows Booger’s side. “Come outside with me.”

Richie reluctantly follows, casting a worried look over his shoulder at Georgie has he does. At the thought of him getting hurt, a warmth pools in the palms of Richie’s hands, as it often does when he gets emotional. If they try anything, it won’t be any help, but it gives him a smug satisfaction to know he could burn this place down. 

Night has long since fallen, but the pyros are all still awake, their faces illuminated in the light of the flames coming off of their bare skin. They’re vibrant and dancing, shouting to the sky that’s clearer than in the city without all of the pollution. Bowers’ upper lip is curled in a sneer as he watches Richie like a piece of meat. His eyes seem empty and dark. Cruelty glints off the points of his teeth when he smiles. 

“I think you and me got off on the wrong foot,” he says.

“Yeah. Was it when you told me not to burn or when you held me down and shaved my head? I’ve had to take in a lot of information today.”

Bowers rolls his eyes and pushes Richie to the ground, climbing onto him again like he had earlier in the day. This time, instead of just holding him down, he punches him in the face, his fist landing squarely over his eye socket. “Done smarting off?”

“Your mother seems to like it.”

The next punch is harder.

“Shut it, Trashmouth. That thing you did today, when your whole body was on fire. Do it again.”

Whatever part of Richie that wants to bring up that he had been told not to is silenced by his sense of self preservation. In truth, he doesn’t know how it happened. He shuts his eyes and imagines that feeling of freedom he had felt in that moment and focuses on it. Flames sputter to life on his hands. It’s not the same. Richie tries harder. Nothing. Frantically now, he searches for something, and his mind settles on the feeling of Stan’s lips on his. He can feel Stan’s fingers on the back of his neck, taste Stan’s cherry chapstick, remember the spark that had flooded his thoughts. Stan. Stan is a thought, feeling, desire. Suddenly he’s aware of the fact that the fire is consuming him completely, and Bowers looks shocked and a little afraid.

In a surge of strength, Richie pushes Bowers off of him. People are watching in awe and fear. Belch and Booger seem to have shrunk in on themselves. Lights click on in the watchtowers and spotlights shine down, focusing on Richie. They see him as threatening. For the first time in a while, he believes that he actually is. His slow, deliberate steps forward send Bowers scuttling back on all fours.

He looks down at his hands. The silver seems to melt, dripping down like runny paint and hitting the ground where it rapidly cools. That’s new. 

Richie surges forward and grabs the front of Bowers’ shirt, holding him up. He has an instinct to press his hands to Bowers’ bare skin, and he listens. With the hand not holding him up, he cups Bowers’ face. The scream he makes is feral, but Richie almost doesn’t hear it. His hand seems to get hotter and hotter the longer he keeps it there. It’s a strange sensation, like he can’t even feel his hand anymore.

It spreads to his whole body. He doesn’t even feel real. For a moment, he swears his feet lift off the ground and he’s just floating there and letting crackling flames soar higher off of his body and into the sky like a torch. Everything he sees is through that thick orange haze. 

Pain.

His fire goes out and Bowers drops from his grip. He feels a hand on his neck, cooling him down rapidly. As he fights not to show his pain, someone splashes cold water on his face. When he manages to open his eyes, he can see on Henry’s face a huge burn in the shape of his hand. To burn a pyro is unheard of, especially that badly. Richie looks down at his hands and swallows, realizing that maybe he has more power than he thought. Their silver is a thin sheen now, not the thick coat it once was. He can’t think anymore because of the cold seeping into his very soul and the water dripping down his face. 

“Strike one,” an unfamiliar voice whispers in his ear, before he finds himself lying flat on his back and struggling to breathe. 

He stumbles to his feet and looks around. A young man with brilliant blue eyes races forward, hands burning, and wraps himself around Richie. Warmth begins to slowly seep back into Richie’s body.

“Thank you,” he croaks, bringing his own arms around the man’s waist. He’s smaller than Richie, and the way he nuzzles his whole body against him reminds him of Stan. His heart clenches. Imagine if he had lost his control like that around someone who wasn’t a pyro and killed them. “What’s your name?”

“Not important, but if you ever need anything, I’m here.”

The man looks up at Richie and flutters his eyelashes, giving him a sweet smile. Richie gives him a tight one in return and says goodnight, stalking back to the barracks. Georgie, thankfully, is still fast asleep beneath his thin sheet when he climbs up into his bunk.

Surrounded by stagnant air, swathed in a scratchy square of cloth, and wishing more than anything to be home and safe, it takes Richie hours to fall asleep.

 

He’s the first to wake up in the morning, as the sun is just beginning to brighten the horizon. Richie slips out of bed and onto the floor, where the workboots he put on two days ago, which he’s now acutely aware probably smell pretty awful, make dull thuds that wake up Georgie.

Richie shushes him softly and nods toward the door at the front of the building, a silent invitation to join him. The smile on Georgie’s face is innocent, and he’s quick to bound out of bed. Outside, the air is already heavy with the muggy weather that’ll only get worse as the day progresses. Towards one of the fences are boxes, which Georgie informs him contain his new clothes as they sit on the ground with their backs to the wall of the barracks. 

“I did something last night,” Richie says, keeping his gaze on the sky and refusing to look at Georgie. “On accident, kind of. After you fell asleep, Bowers made me come outside and told me to make my entire body catch fire again. I kinda got out of hand. I burned him, before a couple thermos showed up to cool me down.”

“He’s going to  _ hate  _ you, even more than he already did.”

Although he nods, Richie isn’t worried. Whatever happened last night, it made Bowers afraid of him, and made his own fear dissipate nearly entirely. He has a sudden understanding that while he didn’t, he could kill Bowers. It would be frighteningly easily considering how powerful he had felt last night. A vision flashes in Richie’s mind about burning the whole camp to the ground, just to see what everyone would do. How would the others react? They might be afraid, or they might join in. One night and Richie already hates it with every fiber of his being. 

Georgie leans into his shoulder quietly, quickly falling back asleep in the dull rays of the morning sunlight. 

He’s still asleep an hour later when everyone begins to wake up, but Richie can’t bring himself to rouse the kid. Those who saw what he did last night regard him with fear and awe, making his cheeks flush. They think he’s a monster now, don’t they?

The man from last night catches his eye and sits on his other side, also leaning into Richie. His body is cold, so Richie sputters a small flame to life to warm him. 

Smiling in thanks, the man presses himself closer. “I’m Lex, by the way.”

“Richie.”

Saying his name aloud feels wrong, too human in the aftermath of the night before. He shuts his eyes and behind them, he sees the silver drip drip dripping into the dirt from his fingertips before he burned Bowers. Maybe the fact that he could get so hot has to do with the silver stains Stan left him with. The same stains that have begun to fade away all of a sudden make him angry at himself for doing something that could cost him his sole reminder of Stan. Those stains are all he has. 

The three of them stay there until breakfast. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> >:)

It takes hours for everyone to settle down, and their now constant fires to die down to small tongues licking at their hands. The man who kissed Bella stays away, but his eyes follow Stan in a way that makes him want to claw off his skin and bury himself deep underground. Bev notices it too, after a while, and tells him not to worry, but worrying is too easy to do in a situation like this. Especially when Bella whistles to get everyone’s attention and stands with her hands clasped neatly behind her back. From her continuously professional appearance, Stan thinks that maybe she could have been a lawyer, or a politician, but that’s as far as the thought goes. She’s a pyro, it’s that simple. She isn’t famous, so more likely than not, she’s an incinerator like Richie.

“We have to talk about something,” she says, by way of introduction. She makes eye contact with Stan and Bev and nods to her left, silently indicating for them to come stand beside her. It’s a risk. Bev doesn’t hesitate, so Stan follows without a word. “These two are not Pyros. They’re here by mistake while they were searching for a friend. Their friend is one of us. Question is, what do we do with them?”

“What are they?” Someone yells, Stan can’t tell who.

Bella presses her lips together in thought, as though she’s worried that telling them will impact their decision. It will, obviously. If they were bios, electros, teles, it would be one thing. To be a thermo and a hydro, the two most hated by the pyros, is another. “Beverly is a thermo,” she says, gesturing loosely to Bev. “She’s friends with Richie, Stan’s boyfriend. Richie is the pyro they’re looking for. Stan is a hydro.” 

A wave of disapproving murmurs ripples through the crowd and not for the first time, Stan’s afraid. They could decide to kill him and Bev. Two against over a hundred is hardly a fair fight. Even if the watchdogs intervene, there’s no telling if they’d be able to stop the fight in time.

“What do you suggest?” questions a different voice.

“I say we protect them. Make sure no one notices that they don’t burn shit, and if their friend comes in on a transfer, we help all three break out.”

To ask complete strangers to do something that could easily get them killed is a stretch, Stan knows that. Even if they do for some reason agree to it now, when the time comes they’ll likely do nothing to help. Maybe they’ll even aid the watch guards in apprehending him and Beverly. He has no guarantee of safety right now, which leaves him with an odd, uncomfortable feeling in his gut that won’t go away. Growing up, Stan didn’t have the worst life. He lived in the same house from birth to graduation with both of his parents. They were strict, but there was never a doubt in his mind that they loved him with every cell in their bodies. A couple of kids at school were nasty, but it was never anything too bad. His upbringing wasn’t anything terrible, but it certainly wasn’t special either. Perhaps the best word for it is mundane. This sense of danger and caution is completely foreign to him.

To Stan’s surprise, there’s no objection to Bella’s proposition. The pyros nod, murmuring to each other. Some go so far as to send him and Bev reassuring smiles with looks in their eyes that seem to say  _ you’re safe with us _ . He wants to believe that, but he can’t. The man who’s been watching him raises his eyebrows. It seems like a challenge, a dare, to say something. Stan’s tongue is too large in his mouth to speak. He lets his eyes slide away and back over the crowd again. One person in particular grabs his attention; the man appears to be around his age, maybe a little older. His face is round and kind, with a smile that radiates comfort. Stan trusts him. He doesn’t know why, but he does. 

“So that’s settled then. We protect Stan and Bev and we help them if Richie ever finds his way here,” Bella says with a smile. She dismisses the two of them back to the crowd with a wave of her hand. “Is there anything else that we need to make a decision on?”

No one says anything, so Bella nods and steps off her metaphorical soapbox and lets her relaxed posture indicate that they’re all free to do whatever they want. The kind man from the crowd approaches Stan, but does so slowly, like one might a timid animal. He holds out one calloused palm, unlit, to shake. 

“My name’s Mike Hanlon,” he introduces. 

Bev takes his hand first. “Beverly Marsh.”

“Stan Uris.” His palm feels just as rough as it looks, but it’s merely warm to the touch as opposed to the scalding hot that Stan had initially feared. “Nice to meet you.” There’s a quick shock, but when Mike pulls away he leaves no black mark and his palm takes no scar. 

“Pleasure’s all mine. You know, nobody really knows that we’re here. And if they did, there would be hell to pay. Government would damn-near have a revolt on their hands.”

Bev nods and begins an in-depth conversation about politics with Mike. While they talk, Stan wanders off to see if any of the others are as amiable as Mike seems to be. The first person he encounters is the man with the long hair who’s been staring at him the entire time. His hands are on fire when he reaches out in a mockery of the way Mike had, laughing at the way Stan keeps a forceful distance between them. 

“Hockstetter,” the man says.

The name is familiar. Stories from Richie’s days at work come to mind about a rambunctious, if a little reckless, man named Hockstetter with wandering eyes and hands. “Uris.”

“I know who you are. I worked with Tozier, your boyfriend. I have to say, he had a mouth on him, didn’t he?”

“Has, present tense,” Stan corrects coldly.

Hockstetter laughs, a sharp and condescending sound. He puts out his fires and suddenly his hands are on Stan’s hips, too warm through the thin fabric of a shirt that belonged to Richie. First and foremost, he wants to tell him off and rip himself away, but his mouth can’t make words and he’s practically frozen in place.

“Calm down, pretty boy. As I was saying, your boyfriend had-  _ has _ \- a mouth on him. Do you know how hard it was to shut him up every day? I had to shove him down to his knees. He was happy to be a good boy because he couldn’t touch you, could he?” Hockstetter leans forward and Stan can feel his breath ghosting over the shell of his ear. His lips are millimeters away. “I bet you’d look just as pretty, waiting around to serve me. You’d love it, wouldn’t you?” 

He uses his hold on Stan to pull him forward so that their fronts are pressed together. It’s too warm, and the feeling of someone’s hands on him sends a wave of revulsion through his entire body. Finally, Stan has the strength to jerk back and out of Hockstetter’s grip. As he returns to Mike and Bev, he keeps his eyes trained carefully on the hard-packed dirt ground.

Their friendly debate has both of them laughing, but Bev gives Stan a questioning look when she catches his eye. He merely shakes his head dismissively. Although she doesn’t press the issue, she keeps glancing back at him as if to check that Stan is still there and still okay. It’s too easy to still feel the ghosts of Hockstetter’s hands on him, just like Beverly’s lips on his the night before. Richie was his first and only boyfriend, and they were going to be engaged. The ring on his hand feels more present, heavier, than before as he plays with it, turning it fractionally to the right and then the left and back again.

Mike throws an arm around Stan’s shoulders casually, holding him in a protective hold reminiscent of Richie, but without any spark of emotion. There isn’t the disgust he’s been feeling when people touch him, but he doesn’t get any sort of happy feeling either. It’s an empty, soulless feeling like he’s being held by a mannequin. He doesn’t say anything, but Bev looks at him like she knows he might want to. 

“So? What’re your thoughts on all this, Stan?”

He shrugs instead of formulating a proper response, because in truth he wasn’t really listening to whatever Mike and Bev were talking about. Mike smiles and delves back into conversation, his arm slipping back to his side before rising up to gesture animatedly along with his words. Stan has to wonder why that touch felt so empty when others have been so loaded. Touch wasn’t this overwhelming and emotionally charged before Stan and Richie kissed. The kiss that changed everything. The kiss that made him suddenly so aware of every feeling that comes with human contact. The kiss that sent him on this crazy, stupid search for someone that, now that he thinks about it, could be dead.

That’s a thought that he doesn’t like entertaining. Richie could just as well be dead as alive. Maybe he got stuck in a camp that’s nice like this one, or maybe he got stuck in one that has no one but people like Hockstetter. Even thinking that name brings back the nasty feeling. He shudders, which brings Bev’s hawk-like gaze back to him yet again. She’s become more of a mother than a friend in the last day, he thinks.

“Stan? Are you even listening?”

He blinks. Had she been talking to him the entire time?

“Nevermind. C’mon, we have to get changed and then we’re going to learn how to pretend to be Pyros.”

Mike leads them to a large container filled with the same canvas jumpsuits that everyone has been wearing. They smell stale, like old hay. Bev takes one and starts stripping immediately, unashamed of her body. Some of the other pyros whistle but no one makes it creepy. Hockstetter catches Stan’s eye and nods as if to say  _ what are you waiting for? _ Stan picks up a jumpsuit and carries it to the bathrooms to change, deciding that the disgusting area is preferable to exposing any skin to Hockstetter. 

No one else is in the bathrooms. They smell awful, look awful, leave Stan wanting to scratch at his skin to get rid of the disgusting feeling. He doesn’t want to take off Richie’s clothes and lose his last reminder of him, but there isn’t another choice. Hesitantly, Stan sets the jumpsuit on the filthy counter while he undresses. Off come Richie’s jacket, Richie’s shirt. Stan lifts a leg out of his boot long enough to pull his leggings off, and repeats it on the other side so that his socked feet don’t have to touch the disgusting ground. All of the clothes fall to the floor where Stan isn’t sure he’ll have the courage to pick them back up. He very carefully puts the jumpsuit on. The scratchy fabric brings red patches to the skin of his neck. 

He ignores it and scoops up his clothes to carry back out. Mike and Bev are laughing again while she holds her clothes in a bundle. They smile at him when he approaches and suddenly Stan has this sense of being a third wheel, unwanted, unloved. He misses Richie. 

“I wanna show you something,” Mike says excitedly, and beckons him to the pile of garbage. “Some of this stuff is really cool. We all keep this pile of the things we want to keep. History books, dolls, jewelry. We come over here to see it sometimes when we have free time.

“I have this book I like, it’s about kinetics. Talks about where we came from and why we’re so different, and Stan, it  has a whole thing about what happens when pyros and hydros touch. This is something we weren’t supposed to see.”

He cracks open its spine, releasing a cloud of strange smelling dust that makes Stan’s nose burden. Slowly, he turns through the pages searching for whatever it is he wanted to show them. Bev looks so much more invested than Stan feels. Why does it matter what happens when he and Richie touch? They’re tens, maybe hundreds of miles apart and there’s no way to know if Richie is even alive. Thinking about him again gives Stan an overwhelming sense of sadness, a wave so strong that his knees nearly give out beneath him.

Mike finds the page and turns the book so that Stan and Beverly can read along as he says the words aloud in a voice that’s mostly smooth, but sometimes catches on the turns of letters in a rough sound.

“Prolonged contact has effects on both the pyrokinetic and hydrokinetic involved. The pyrokinetic develops an ability to produce water as well. Scars from touching hydrokinetics come from buildups of energy that inexplicably can be used to make water or steam. Pyrokinetics cannot lower their temperatures enough to create ice. As they use water, the energy stores in the scars deplete. The scars, once drained, disappear. However, this burst of energy increases the pyrokinetic’s ability to burn. Instead of producing water, the energy can raise temperatures of burning high enough to physically injure another pyrokinetic. Hydrokinetics, on the other hand, take emotional energy into themselves. They become empaths to an extreme amount, feeling everything magnified tenfold. Physical contact can become a chore so overwhelming that hydrokinetics with excessive contact with pyrokinetics often begin to avoid any with anyone. Those hydrokinetics who are able to withstand the change are capable of incredible things. Once the power is harnessed, hydrokinetics gain the ability to ‘read’ people by touching them, giving them flashes of emotion.”

As soon as he finishes reading, Mike slams the book shut and returns it to its dutiful place on the trash pile. “That research was done in the eighties, published in the nineties. The government starting collecting pyros then, especially ones who’ve touched hydros, to experiment. If they could find an excuse, I’m sure they’d be collecting hydros too.”

Stan wraps his arms around himself, suddenly cold. He can’t imagine Richie with water, but what the book said about what’s been happening with emotions makes sense. The disgust he felt kissing Bev was so magnified that his body revolted against the idea. When Hockstetter touched him, his fear and that odd gross feeling were all consuming. So why, then, did Mike give him nothing? Why was he so blank? The question must appear on his face, because Mike meets his eyes and cocks his head to the side. Then he gives him a knowing smile, and winks before returning his attention to Beverly. 

“This book has anything you could ever want to know about kinetics- and plenty you don’t want to know.”

Before anything else can be said, Bella summons everyone for dinner. Stan hates the way everything here is so dirty, coated in layers of grime and grit and ash. Even the walls of the canteen are disgusting. The pyros all form an orderly line, grabbing plates first and then to a large barrel full of what Stan can only assume is soup. He doesn’t want to eat it, but there’s nothing else for him, so he knows he has to.

Bev makes a face at it to, but schools it away before she gives Stan an encouraging smile. Despite the repugnant smell wafting from the soup, she spoons out bowls for herself, Stan, and Mike, who doesn’t seem to notice at all. 

“I was worried we’d have too many people, and have to water this down to make it spread. Looks like we’re lucky- this is normal.”

An argument about how none of this is normal drifts lazily through Stan’s brain but never comes close to coming out of his mouth. Everyone knows that this is abnormal and wrong and the more Stan thinks about it, the more he wants to tell anyone in the world who’ll listen that this is happening. 

He sits down with Bev and Mike on the canteen floor and eats his soup with a plastic spoon. The flavor is something flat and sad and clearly not made with taste buds in mind, but it fills the gnawing ache in his stomach that he had forgotten to think about all day. If he’s going to be here for awhile, he should keep his strength up, he supposes. Stan watches Mike drink straight from the bowl and down it all in only a few greedy gulps. Other pyros who’ve been here longer behave similarly, but the new ones look to be as hesitant as Stan is to eat it. 

Bella catches his eye across the room with a stormy expression. The weight of the world has settled on her shoulders, pressing down on her with the reminder that she is the one holding everyone together. As soon as she realizes Stan sees her, her face clears and she offers him a smile. He can sense how forced it is. His eyes drop to the soup that now tastes like sand when he swallows it, taking care to keep it off his tongue as much as possible. 

It’s surprisingly easy to choke back once he gets used to it. 

After dinner and doing dishes, everyone goes back outside where the sun has set, illuminating their faces with bright flickering flames that cast spooky shadows. They remind Stan of monsters from old story books. Laughter scatters in the air, and he doesn’t understand how they can be so happy and carefree when they’re trapped. Every time he sees the fences, he’s reminded of it. He turns to ask Mike, but sees him spinning Bev around in a dance to music that no one else can hear. 

As Stan watches, Hockstetter takes long, deliberate steps towards him. He’s alone. If he tries to avoid him, he’ll only further isolate himself. It’s impossible to imagine anything getting too bad when there are so many people around. Still, he puts his hands out in front of himself and prepares to extinguish Hockstetter if necessary. 

“This is just cute, Uris,” Hockstetter laughs. “You try and water me down, and every pyro here will turn against you.”

He grabs Stan’s wrists and it burns. No shock, no tingle, just pain. When he tries to pull away, Hockstetter only tightens his hold. Bile rises in Stan’s throat. 

“What do you want?”

Hockstetter gives him a nasty grin and tugs Stan closer. “I want you to keep your pretty mouth shut and let me do what I want. You cause me trouble, I’ll hurt you. Bad.”

The moment he drops Stan’s arms, he gets a grip somewhere else. Lower. His hands are rough and greedy and if he doesn’t let go in the next five seconds Stan is going to scream. Suddenly he’s backing away and smirking. 

Stan sprints to the bathrooms and kneels in front of a disgusting, stinking, filthy communal toilet so he can empty his stomach of the soup he had just finished. Over and over, until he’s dry heaving and shaking and crying. By the time he stands back up, he’s pale and shaking with a fine sheen of sweat on his face. He looks down and sees two perfect black handprints circling his frail wrist bones. It’s too dark. It’s wrong. It hurts. Even now, it still hurts. 

The hazy mirror distorts his reflections in weird ways, turning him into a parody of a person. Big eyes, too big, too wide, too heavy even though he continues to tell himself that everyone else here is suffering more than he is. He shouldn’t be here. He’s a fraud. He’s lucky that they’ve agreed to help him instead of throwing him to the wolves. He has no right to be upset about Hockstetter because that’s the price he pays for living here as he waits to find out that Richie’s okay. 

Stan pulls down the sleeves of his jumpsuit as far as they’ll go so that he doesn’t have to look at the bruises. 

When he finally emerges from the bathroom, it’s to see Bev waiting outside with a look of worry set into the lines of her face. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

She doesn’t believe him. 

But she doesn’t push it either, only takes Stan’s hand and holds it tightly in her fingers. He feels calmer, more serene, just like that. The word empath returns to his thoughts. Is it a magnification of his own feelings, or is it a fragment of Bev’s? Maybe it’s both. He doesn’t know how to tell. 

He searches for Mike, finding him standing across the camp and talking to Bella. Even from this distance, it’s easy to tell that neither are happy. Hockstetter stands by them, pretending not to listen although he’s given away by the tilt in his head, angling one ear towards him. Pyros steer around him as they walk like a rock in a river. It appears that everyone has a dislike and a distrust for him too. It crosses Stan’s mind that he’s harassed others too. 

“What do you think they’re talking about?”

Stan jumps and realizes that Bev is looking at Mike and Bella as well. “Nothing good,” he replies. “They both look pretty pissed.”

She nods and leads him to the trash pile from earlier to find and pull out Mike’s book. A request to look for something about why Mike doesn’t burn him gets stuck in Stan’s throat. He sits silently on the ground beside Bev and reads alongside her the text on the cracked pages. 

The section in thermos is the one she finds first, skimming over pages of how to use her power. She stops on something about how pyros and thermos are made to work together. It talks about how thermos have the ability to calm down and relax pyros. Control them, in other words. Their energy is derived from pyros as well. Other heat sources work, but nothing is as strong as skin to skin contact with a pyro. 

“So when I was drawn to Richie, and to Tom-” she starts. 

“It was because you needed their energy.”

She nods bitterly. Tom, her ex, was awful to her during their brief relationship. He was a pyro too, with burning hands like bullwhips that left Bev with welts and puckered burn scars from when his temper and his skin got too hot, even for her. That’s how she learned the forceful cooldown that he’s seen her use on Richie time and time again. The same thing she did to keep Stan from overheating on the truck ride here, too.

Suddenly he has the voice to ask about Mike. Bev nods and flips to the section on pyros. “I didn’t get any energy from him. Nothing. When I tried to heat him earlier, it was like hitting a brick wall.”

They go through so many unhelpful pages, eventually landing on the section of hydros and pyros once again. More information follows the single paragraph they had ingested earlier in the day. 

“If a pyrokinetic is submerged in water to the point of inhaling it, they will live as a shell, incapable of producing flame should they survive the incident. However, their core internal body temperature will raise to well over five hundred degrees. The pyrokinetic may incur this heat and direct it at anything at any moment they choose. On the exterior, the body may be cool to the touch. Pyrokinetics who live in this way have often been described as walking corpses, invulnerable to outside manipulations by other kinetics,” Bev reads, her voice getting quieter and quieter until it’s barely a whisper by the time she reaches the end.

“Give me that book.”

Stan jumps and looks up to see Mike standing over them. He doesn’t look angry, but his face is stern and he holds out a hand expectantly. With jerky, puppet-like movements, Bev hands it off to him. She seems shocked when her arms come back to her body, like they had moved of their own volition. 

“Don’t touch this again without me.”

He leaves them, and then Stan feels cold, like Mike had swept away all the heat with him when he left. Bev grabs his shaking hands and warmth floods his body. It does nothing to dispel the way his heart is beating too sluggishly slow now.

The two of them get up to go to bed, and Hockstetter follows them. Every step they take has an echo of heavy work boots that fall in an uneven, swaggering pattern. Stan is suddenly too warm. Judging by how tightly she clings to him, Beverly knows that Hockstetter is here too, and she knows that he means trouble.

As they settle into their beds, Hockstetter takes a seat on the mattress of one near them. Just watching. “Ignore him,” Beverly whispers, barely loud enough for Stan to hear.

Easier said than done. Stan can feel his eyes on his body, tracing the way the jumpsuit that doesn’t fit quite right drapes over the dip in his waist. There is no blanket to pull over himself. Bev’s breathing evens out into an obvious sleep quickly, but Stan can’t when he knows that just a couple of feet away, he’s being watched. 

Before long, all the pyros filter into bed too. Only once all of them are asleep does Hockstetter make his move. He crawls into Stan’s bed and fits their bodies together, holding Stan close in an iron grip. The only places that their skin touches is where his left hand is curled around the front of Stan’s throat. His other rests elsewhere. Lingering. Waiting. Stan shuts his eyes and tries not to cry. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any thoughts?


	5. Chapter 5

After a meager breakfast, Richie gets a jumpsuit. He hates it more than anything. Before he can pick up his old clothes, Bowers is there to incinerate them. This time, Richie does not fight, but he doesn’t hesitate to shoot Bowers a nasty look and raise his burning hands in warning. No words pass between them . 

“You don’t have to let him push you around, we all saw that last night,” Lex says, wrapping his arms around one of Richie’s and hanging off of him. “You could kill him if you tried.”

“I’m gonna pick my battles,” Richie tells him, and pulls out of the grip.

The three of them walk over to the trash pile and begin burning things, like all the other pyros. Monotony. Boredom. Tedium. All the things that Richie is too familiar with but he knows he’ll never get the chance to escape. Something about the whole experience reminds him of being a child again, picked on more than any of his friends because of his smart mouth that he just can’t control. Running away with his words has always been something that gets Richie in a lot of trouble. He really can’t help it. It never occurs to him to just shut up.

Solving things with his fists wasn’t much help either. His bullies were always bigger, stronger, faster. Richie recalls a particular sunny afternoon waiting for his friends to get out of school. A bully whose name he can’t remember for the life of him had grabbed Richie by the scruff of his neck and thrown him to the ground. He was so young. Eleven maybe? He had cried and that only made them angrier. They kicked and punched and yelled and they broke his glasses, nose, and wrist. Stan had been the one to cradle his head while Eddie ran to the nurse. 

Thinking of Stan always makes him smile. Stan, who straightens the covers on his bed six times every morning, who has been Richie’s since before they had a concept of love, who is currently living life in their small apartment all by himself. Hopefully not by himself. If he knows his friends, Richie knows that they’ll take care of Stan until he learns how to live on his own after however many years spending everyday with Richie at his side. 

He has a hard time imagining it. 

“Do people ever go home?” He asks, turning to Georgie. “Do they get trials, get freed?”

Georgie laughs at him and shakes his head, like it’s a stupid question. In hindsight, Richie supposes it is. Why would the government ever give them a chance to tell the world about being kept in a camp like this? The realization that he’ll never go home hits Richie like a ton of bricks. He suddenly cares a whole lot less about keeping his head down and not causing trouble. What does he have to lose? If anyone lays a finger on Stan, it won’t be forgotten any time soon.

Richie looks at Lex, who suddenly has his eyes focused intently on the trash. He had been staring, then. It occurs to him briefly that if he wanted to, he could have a fling with Lex. They could go to the bathrooms and he could set Lex on the counter and make him say Richie’s name in that high, breathy voice of his. Just as suddenly as the thought appears, it’s gone and he’s left with a sense of shame. How could he even think of cheating on Stan? What’s wrong with him? He bites at the inside of his cheek in a small effort to punish himself for thinking of that for even a split second.

“So,” he says, his voice sounding strangled and wrong. “How did you two get here?”

Lex answers quickly, his bubbly voice smoothing out into something sadder. “I got into a fight with my buddy, and we got hauled in. Next thing I know, I’m here getting my ass handed to me by Bowers. How about you?”

“My boyfriend, Stan,” Richie begins. He has to take a breath after that to get himself through an unexpected swell of emotion. “My boyfriend. Stan. We’ve been together for forever, since before we got our powers. He’s a hydro. We touched once, a couple years ago on accident. The night before I was arrested, we kissed and… and it’s not how they say.”

Now he has their undivided attention. Other pyros have perked up too, pretending to be working but very clearly listening in.

“It was like being filled with energy. I could- I could do anything. I felt like the world was mine. We’re both okay and everything’s fine, but I got caught with the scars on me. I got my ass arrested and now I’m here too.’

He shrugs and incinerates an old takeout container to signify that he’s done speaking. Everyone returns to what they’re doing. After a couple minutes of silence, Richie turns to look at Georgie. Just as he opens his mouth to say something, Georgie blurts out, “I killed a hydro.” Now the whole camp is watching yet again. “She was following me around and taunting me and saying that the world would be better off without pyros. And she pulled a gun out of her purse- I panicked. I didn’t mean to hurt her, I just freaked out and I couldn’t stop myself and she didn’t scream.” Georgie laughs, a little hysterically. “She didn’t scream. Only the bystanders screamed. They all called 911 but by the time the ambulance arrived, she was burnt too badly to be recognized.”

“Georgie-”

“I’m not sorry I did it.”

Richie takes a deep breath, trying to erase the image of what Georgie did from his mind. He can’t fathom someone as sweet and innocent as him being capable of murder, and to not even feel guilty about it? Although he knows Stan would never do what that woman was doing, it makes him worry about his boyfriend walking home late at night, stepping too close to a pydro and getting himself incinerated like the garbage in front of Richie right now.

No one talks at all for the rest of the work day, but everytime he glances to his left, Richie sees Lex turn away rapidly. Under different circumstances, he might tease him or make a joke, but he feels like it would be weird to point out what he isn’t one hundred percent sure that he’s seeing. Maybe this is all in his head, a reaction to missing Stan. The way that Lex holds himself and the look in his eyes is far too reminiscent of the man that Richie is sure that he’s in love with, has been for such a long time that he can’t picture a moment in which that isn’t the case.

The memory of kissing Stan comes back full force.

When night falls, Bowers is unafraid to approach Richie, Lex and Georgie. Belch and Booger grab Richie and Lex, while Bowers takes slow, deliberate steps forward to grab Georgie by the front of his shirt. “So you’re a murderer, are ya?” He asks, lifting him off the ground by that grip.

“Piss off, Bowers,” Richie says. He gets backhanded for his trouble.

“Karma’s a real bitch, little boy.” 

Richie flinches when Bowers hits Georgie for the first time. He turns his head away and shuts his eyes, but it doesn’t stop him from hearing the impact of knuckles on cheekbone or the pathetic noises of pain that come every time Georgie is struck. It pops into Richie’s mind to heat up like he did last night, but then his silver would drip off and he’d lose his last connection to Stan. He starts thrashing instead, trying to get Belch to let him go, but he’s not muscular. The only thing he has is his fire. 

Georgie cries out loudly. 

He hears that noise, and he thinks of too many things at once. He thinks of Stan when the bullies back in their hometown hurt him and he would scream in pain. He thinks of himself when his father got too angry. He thinks of the woman Georgie killed. All he can imagine is how much pain there is in that single sound and how he can’t stand here and let this happen in front of him without doing anything about it.

Without thinking, Richie starts to burn. Not too hot, not yet, but the fire catches on his palms and begins to creep up his forearms. His eyes wrench open and he sees the light from his body gleaming off of the blood dripping on Georgie’s face. Bowers isn’t paying attention. He drops Georgie and starts kicking him. The bloodcurdling scream he makes when Bowers hits him hard enough to make his arm bend at an unnatural angle has Richie seething. Over and over and over, Bowers kicks and yells and Georgie is coughing up puddles of dark blood and Richie can’t take it anymore.

Water comes from his hands.

Not fire, not steam, water.

Belch screams and lets go of him as the water sprays out and hits Bowers, who makes an awful wounded noise. The attention is off of Georgie, off of Lex, and on him. Booger, Belch and Bowers are all coming towards him, burning now too. He holds his hands out and more water comes. It’s exhausting, and the silver is leaking off of Richie’s hands and he feels it dripping down the back of his neck where Stan’s fingers had been when they kissed. For the first time in his life, Richie starts to sweat, too. Everything is overwhelming. If he thought he had an insurmountable amount of power coursing through him last night, this is much, much worse.

One swish of his hand and a splash of water has Belch and Booger screaming in pain and backing away from him. Bowers stands strong, refusing to let himself be intimidated again. Just like that, whatever allowed Richie to make water sputters out and dies in a sad flush of steam and a loud hissing noise. Now he has nothing. Recognition flashes over Bowers’ face as he charges Richie and knocks him over. He lands on the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him, but Bowers doesn’t hurt him right away.

“You’re fucked, Trashmouth,” he says, his tone gloating and proud.

Richie looks to the side at Georgie, lying on the ground, bloody and unmoving. Belch and Booger are holding onto Lex again. And Bowers, Bowers is pinning Richie down and smirking because he thinks he’s won. Maybe he has. All three of them are incapacitated, Georgie maybe permanently. The urge to just give in washes over Richie. It’s tempting, too tempting to resist.

Then he realizes that Georgie’s chest is still. He isn’t breathing.

Something takes Richie over. He reaches up too quickly to be stopped and wraps his hands around Bowers’ throat, squeezing. Belch and Booger are too stunned to move. This should feel wrong, he should care about whether or not he’s about to kill a man, but he can’t bring himself to. If worst comes to worst, he wouldn’t mind. It’s just Bowers.

He feels powerful right now. Richie isn’t on the ground anymore, he’s on his feet and holding Bowers up by the neck. Tighter. Tighter. Tighter his hand crushing Bowers’ windpipe and he isn’t just apathetic, he’s enjoying it. Realizing how much he likes this should be scary, but it isn’t. There’s no room for fear right now. All that Richie can hear is Bowers screaming and the sound of his own heartbeat drumming, pounding in his ears. The screaming fades quieter. Gurgles. Stops. Bowers’ pulse is fast and angry against the pads of Richie’s fingers. Eventually that stops too.

Everything is still because the reality that he just killed someone has yet to set in. People are staring with shock, but no one mourns a man like Bowers except for Belch and Booger. Now that the rage has rescinded, Richie can recognize that Georgie is actually dead. He sinks down to the ground beside Georgie and takes the limp hand of the not horribly broken arm to check for a pulse. Nothing. It’s probably too late for CPR but he has to try anyways. The bones of Georgie’s ribs crack and shift horribly beneath his hands but he can’t stop. How could Georgie, who’s barely a child it seems, be dead so quickly? His shirt rides up revealing patterns of silver-grey handprints. Richie brushes up against him and they feel cold to the touch. Some of it rubs off on his fingers and won’t go away.

“HEY! GET OFF OF HIM!”

Water drenches Richie once again. It doesn’t hurt him this time, just puffs into steam around him. Hands curl around his arms and drag him away. Thermos’ hands, judging by how the heat is drawn from his body. He starts crying, suddenly, crying real tears and not fighting as he’s pulled away from Georgie’s body. Bowers’ is right there too, burnt and with black bruises on his neck from Richie’s grip. He’s a murderer, just like Georgie. It should make him sick but it doesn’t. Richie has a frighteningly easy time justifying being a killer. 

A killer.

That hits him hard. Richie Tozier: pyro, incinerator, murderer. He feels like throwing up. Guilt washes over him. Whether is was Bowers or not, he took a life. That’s something he can’t ever undo or make right. 

The thermos cuff Richie with painful metal and haul him away from Georgie’s body. He doesn’t bother to resist- why would he? This is his own damn fault. They drag him outside the fence, and for a moment, he thinks they’re going to kill him. His only question is how- a gun, suffocation tit for tat, forceful extended cool down? He isn’t sure, nor does he care as long as it’s quick. Stan will never know what happened to him, and maybe it’ll be better that way.

He braces himself for whatever’s coming.

But they just keep walking and walking, until they reach a blocky building about fifty feet from the perimeter of the camp. Richie’s never noticed it before, but now it’s glaringly obvious and he can smell the stink of it from here. There are people in there, people who’ve been there for a long time. He’s going there, for who knows how long. He takes deep gulps of the fresh outside air while he still can, trying to memorize the taste of a fresh breeze.

Despite everything, he’s not at all scared. It’s like someone took that ability away from him when he killed Bowers. If Richie wasn’t a pyro, there would be a really convincing case against him for voluntary manslaughter, he thinks. Vaguely he remembers a debate he had with Beverly at one point about the degrees of homicide. He didn’t premeditate, so it’s not murder in the first. But he also didn’t have the intention of killing when he got into the fight, so it isn’t murder in the second either. This is normally where Stan would interject with exactly the right answer and clear up Richie’s doubts and confusion. He misses having that luxury.

The door suddenly opens to the squat building that upon closer inspection, seems to be little more than a poorly built warehouse packed with pyros. They reek, and so does the suspicious pile in the corner of the room. Emaciated, unfed bodies crowd together in circles around their weak splutterings of flame. It feels as though there’s no heat in the room. Thermos have to be taking it out. Richie wants nothing to do with anything in here, but he doesn’t have a choice because he’s thrust inside and the door slams shut behind him. Wan faces turn towards him and don’t speak, at least not right away. No one approaches him. He wraps his arms around himself, shivering in the cold, and walks up the the nearest bubble. 

Wide eyes look at him. He feels oddly like they’re sizing him up as if he were a meal. There doesn’t seem to be any indicators that anyone feeds them.

“How long have you been here?” Richie asks.

One man with shaky, warped fingers raises them to Richie and drags them down his cheek. Rough calluses scratch but don’t hurt. He tries to lean back but the hand on his face suddenly has a rough grip. The pads of the man’s hand dig in on either side of his chin. Everyone watches as Richie’s face is tilted from side to side. As soon as his face is released, more hands grab at his own and examine their silver tint. Murmurs ripple over the room in waves. 

“Doesn’t matter. You won’t be here long,” says the man who grabbed Richie. “You’re young. Fresh. Touched by hydros. They’ll have you on the next transfer.”

“What about you?”

The man laughs, shuddering and choked with dust. “I’m not going anywhere. Plenty of you will.”

He’s confused, but he doesn’t ask for further clarification because it’ll probably just be more cryptic statements. Richie opens his palms and relaxes to let fire sizzle to life. He’s freezing cold, so he can’t create much at once. The little tongues of flame keep his hands warm, but that’s all. Nothing else can bloom in the cold. Others crowd close to him and hold wrinkled palms up to to his fire. It’s brighter and bigger than all the other meager things they had been able to make combined. The silver draping his hands glows an unearthly white. It’s really pretty, but Richie can’t fully appreciate it. He’s cold, he’s miserable, he’s a killer, he misses Stan, and he’s never,  _ ever _ felt more alone in his life than he does right now.

Through the night, his hands burn. Pyros take turns coming close to him to warm themselves on his flames until early morning when he’s grabbed by the scruff of his neck and dragged out into blinding sunlight. Faces press against the wire fence around the camp to watch Richie and several others be forced into the enclosed trailer of a truck smaller than the one he arrived in. The fit is tight, but not as tight.

But the darkness is every bit as absolute when the door slams shut. The other pyros light up now that they’re able, but Richie’s is still the brightest and warmest. He’s able to see their faces better now, see how their skin is stretched tight over their skulls. Underfed. Underloved. How long had they sat abandoned before joining him on the transfer today? It’s hard to think about. He’s lucky to have been brought on day one. 

“Do you have families? Friends?” He asks. 

No one says anything. They’ve forgotten how to speak, it seems. Richie wants to feel sorry for them, but he wonders what they could have possibly done to get banished like he did. Even if they’re not tried and true criminals who belong in the camps, they still did something to get sequestered. Hell, Richie got sent there because he killed Bowers, and he’s nowhere near as hardened or damaged as the other. He gets a brief feeling like standing at the detonation sight of Hiroshima, a visceral thought like  _ something very bad happened here _ . To get that sense in a moving truck tells him more about the aura of these people than anything else could.

The truck must be traveling on a windy, bumpy road if the way the bed of it jostles is any indication. Richie’s sharp shoulders bump into scrawny ones of exposed bone from no food in too long. Skeletons. They’re not people, they’re skeletons. He feels as though he’s the last one alive in a room of dead men standing, and perhaps that’s all that he is. What would the point in being alive be if it’s spent in a place like this? No Stan, no Losers Club, no Georgie or Lex. Just himself, standing alone and slowly becoming the starved, emaciated husks that his companions are now.

A fate worse than death.

One of the others starts humming an eerie, ghostly tune. Hauntingly beautiful, spectral and inhuman, it rises and catches on the pyros around him in a flame leaping from match to match. Although it sounds familiar, he can’t seem to place the melody. Their music sounds like emptiness feels. It’s hollow and wistful, tastes like strong wind on a cool, cloudless night. As much as it’s pain, it’s beauty. 

It ends on a high note, crisp and clean with melding parts beneath it from the others. With that, the dead man’s lullaby is over. To ask, it seems, would be disrespectful. Richie feels stronger, more real, in the aftermath of it all. 

He’s also tired. The rocking of the truck, the barely there warmth, the results of long nights without sleep, all culminate in him falling asleep to the memory of music. 

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me on tumblr, which is coincidentally also @nb-richie


End file.
